


Two Words

by Gemenied



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Romance, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemenied/pseuds/Gemenied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He drowns in a viscous sea that her voice fills with two words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Words

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own. Nothing. Just having fun.
> 
> I wrote this one during Christmas night and I'm not sure it doesn't mean something bad that I did, but it sure was fun!!!!

** Two Words **

Contrary to popular belief, he does know a thing or two about atmosphere, which accounts for the situation they find themselves in. It's her house, because big, stylish and well-off his might be, hers is an old build and thus just offers something. There's also the eclectic clutter of many years, many interests and many things seen, that gives her house a special feeling.

So, they are in her living room, on the big plushy sofa that faces the large Victorian fireplace. He's built and lit the fire while she brought over the bottle and their glasses. He's made sure that all artificial lights are off, so it's just the fire and a few candles. Looks almost sickeningly romantic, but he actually rather likes the warm, shadowy darkness this provides.

It gives him a homely feeling, safety even, and after all he's seen and experienced, he isn't above accepting this every now and then. Outside it is snowing for the first time this season and the cynic in him can't help but mock how the country will come to a standstill because of a few flakes. He's also glad he's not having to go out into this. He won't make any move towards getting up and leaving to drive across the city to his big, dark and cold house, and she will definitely not request it.

On the other hand, though, it is romantic.

How the evening ends is hazy and unplanned, but the chances are good it will be exactly the predictable thing. Not something he's likely to complain about. Knowing her, neither will she. That's something that happily surprised him – she's not timid, not shy, not sheepish. She is, and maybe that's the point where it should have been expected, rather straightforward. She says what she wants, she takes what she wants, and she does what she wants.

Maybe that's age and experience, maybe that's just her, but it's a damn lot of fun.

In return he likes to surprise her, which is a lot more difficult than he thought. Either she can really see right through him or she can mask her surprise better. That is, naturally, a challenge. He gladly defers to her – as much as his ego is capable of – but being bested by her on a constant basis is not always for him. So, he's made it one of his goals in life to catch her unawares.

Right now, she's tucked in under his arm, against his shoulder, warm and soft, and just at the right angle so that he only needs to take a deep breath to get a whiff of her perfume. The scent is still strong and very seductive, now having mixed with her natural one. It's a very heady blend.

With his eyes closed and almost no sounds, except the slight crackling of the fire, two other senses take over: Scent and touch. Her weight against his body, the tickle of her hair against his neck and jaw, the warmth and velvety softness of the exposed skin of her stomach against his finger tips. He's slipped his free hand under her top as soon as she nestled against him. It's his favourite thing to do when they sit like that. In fact, it's his favourite thing. Period.

It combines protection, possession and sensuality. It's perfect, because she likes it. It's such a damn turn on, because, well, everything about her is a damn turn on.

It makes him smile and tighten his grip on her, before his fingers slip lower.

His languishing is interrupted when she moves against him, obviously brought from her tranquillity by his own move. She turns and moves away. His side feels cold, bereft even from the sudden loss of contact, but he doesn't open his eyes. The sofa hasn't dipped, she's still there.

Even with his eyes closed, he knows that she's watching him now, trying to decipher what has just happened and why. That's the way she is, she never stops thinking, always gathering and assessing information. He likes that too, likes it even more when he makes her stop thinking altogether. Just feel.

"What?" he whispers languidly.

She still smiles. He knows it and for a moment he is tempted to look and see just what kind of a smile it is. From that he'll know what she'll do. Does she want to stay silent and lackadaisical? Does she want to talk? To argue even? Or, and he would absolutely not be averse to that, does she have this impish smile that bodes so well for a more or less energetic tumble between the sheets or even on this sofa?

Opening his eyes, though, would break the spell and quite possibly the surprise. Pre-meditated assurance and knowledge is completely overrated.

The sofa cushions wobble with her sudden movement, but when they still, he can feel her body next to his again, though in a very different way. She's sitting next to him, her knees against his thigh, his arm trapped by her front leaning against him. Automatically, his own hand cups her knee, then caresses whatever part of her it can reach. She's placed her arm along the back of the sofa, giving her fingers enough leeway to play with his shoulders, his neck or his hair. Predictably, her fingers massage the back of his head and neck, feathery and light, but it's a sensation that goes straight to his groin and to every other pleasure point his body possesses. In fact, his body is nothing but a coat of goosebumps.

Her fingertips withdraw, leaving just the edges of her nails still touching him, and it's like his skin arches towards the light touch, desperate to prolong the sensation.

"Grace," he breathes hoarsely and he knows that her smile deepens, takes this tone of intimacy that he'd protect and defend with his life.

Suddenly, her mouth is right next to his ear, for he can feel her breath against his skin before she even speaks. The hairs there seem to stand on end, like they have been charged with their own electricity, which runs from there to his feet and back up.

"Tell me, Peter," she commands in a breathy whisper, so quiet that he deciphers the words more from the tactile sensation of the bursts of her breath against his skin than actual sound. "Tell me."

"What?" he repeats, which sounds breathy in his mind, but if it comes out as a growl, a groan or a squeak, he simply doesn't care. "Tell you what?"

"Tell me your fantasy."

A request, a command, his brain has melted by now. Her free hand, the one not electrifying the skin of his neck, is wandering slowly, feathery, mind-meltingly up from his knee over his thigh. It dips from the top down to his inner thigh and while he knows how sensitive she is in that area of her body, he damn-bloody hell never knew just how sensitive _he_ is there.

The fact that he's still wearing his trousers is the only saving point, the darkness being the other. That way, his completely uncontrolled physical reaction might not be so obvious, but if it isn't to her eyes, her hand has no trouble finding out. She covers him, her palm riding over the ridge of his growing erection under the smooth material of his suit trousers.

His mouth opens at the bold touch, but no sound comes out.

"Tell me, Peter," she repeats, and he could almost swear that she paints the words onto the shell of his ear with her lips.

He's drunk on the concert of feelings and emotions, on the atmosphere. It's like a viscous sea of sensuality in which he is drowning; the perfect death.

Her hand that covered him moments before cups his balls now. Gently, still somewhat feathery. It shoots daggers of arousal through him nonetheless, makes his trousers more of a prison than a welcome restraint.

"Tell me." It's a tattoo of the same phrase over and over again, weaving into his fantasy. This is going to be it from now on – the dark, the feathery touch on his skin and the sure and languid one on his cock, while her voice seduces him into sensual mindlessness.

"Tell me."

She strokes him again, her movements sure and a touch triumphant, for he doesn't even realize that he answers in moans. His body has taken over, lust and pleasure stronger than any conscious thought.

Suddenly, without him even noticing, she's opened belt, button and zip, manoeuvred her hand inside his underwear.

He shouts at the sensation, surges into her hand, but all he hears is the hypnotic repetition of her words.

"Tell me."

Her breath becomes faster against his ear, hotter as well. It turns her on how much she works him up. He's just body and lust, sensation and desire. It's all instinct as her hand mimics the tightness and friction of other places and he pumps against the slight resistance.

Still she repeats her words endlessly against his ear, though they are moans now as well. "Tell me, Peter. Tell me your fantasy."

It heats him up even more than he already is. That working him into a frenzy affects her like this. With his eyes still closed, his ears full of her gasped words, and his body all but oblivious to anything but the weight of her body against his side – her breasts feel heavy and seductive against his arm – her fingertips drawing the skin of his neck with them in a desperate plea for extended contact, and her other hand...

The olfactory sensation comes back into play and he swears that mingling with the smell of his arousal is hers. His fingers itch to delve there, experience the slickness, taste it even on his tongue, yet he is caught in what she does.

"Tell me."

Her movements become erratic, the suction and soothing of her hand on his cock frantic, coinciding with his cock swelling in her hand, his balls tightening and his hips surging. He's so close that he can see the edge like a silvery lining on the horizon towards which he's happily hurtling. Beyond is the abyss of sensation, darkness, mindlessness, drowning.

He doesn't care. Not when her fingers graze his scrotum, each of the nerve endings there jump. He shouts and he surges. Blood roars in his ears, drowning out the reality of her voice. But he doesn't need it any more. It's burned into his skull, endlessly luring him.

She stops speaking, suddenly and quite forcefully sinking her teeth into his earlobe as she shudders and that, an infinitesimal bit of insanity, is what tips him over.

The sensual sea is deep and seductive, dark and warm and viscous. He is submerged, his body rushing through the physical bits, sperm shooting, splattering, shaking, roaring noises, and the vice-like grip of his hands – around her thigh and convulsively of the sofa cushion.

He doesn't notice, doesn't care. All he has and needs is her voice in his head and the tactility of her body against his.

Time passes, how long is of no importance. The room is even more shadowy, for both the fire and the candles have burned lower. There is now the slight tang of bodily fluids in the air, creating a strange aroma. Not unpleasant, but telling.

They are both slumped into the sofa and against each other.

His heavy breathing is the first thing he consciously registers again, the sticky wetness of his release beginning to congeal and dry on his trousers and shirt next. It will be a bitch to clean, but that's not of consequence either.

She moves against him, her head nestling into the crook of his neck, and he becomes aware of the intensified tickle of her hair against the dew of sweat on his neck. It's not helping him to calm down, but he's not bothered. The way this is going, round two will happen, must happen soon. He doesn't think he can hold out if he doesn't have her tonight.

She smiles, still or again. "Okay?" she whispers affectionately.

"Yeah," he whispers back, surprised how hoarse that sounds. "Bloody hell, Grace!" He wants to say something profound, something that encapsulates what he feels right now and though he could use the word 'love', it would not remotely cover what he is actually feeling.

Her gentle chuckle proves that she understands and his hearts swells even more, almost to the point of bursting. His grip tightens on her now idle arm. With difficulty he turns his head, tenderly kisses what his mouth can reach.

Once again it's her who disrupts their connection by pulling back. This time he opens his eyes and all he can find in the darkness is the impish intensity of her eyes on him. She smiles, a tad bit smug, but that's alright given what she's just done to him.

"Will you tell me now?" she asks.

Her grin is a challenge, he knows only too well. "No," he growls hoarsely. She pouts prettily, because she knows she can get away with...pretty much everything now. "I'll show you."

The pout turns into something calculating.

It's an edge of gratuitous danger in the deep and sensual sea they are both wading in. And he can't wait to sail close to the limit of it.

Neither, of that can be absolutely no doubt, can she.


End file.
